The SparrowChapter One
by okamiwarrior
Summary: I started this fanfiction about five months ago after reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" in English class. I hope you enjoy! :D


**Chapter 1**

A sleek, 1936 Buick brakes at the end of the alley. Within moments, a tall, well-dressed man, opens its blackened doors to step onto the New York streets. He places his Fedora over his slicked black hair, as a large, stocky man walks towards him.

"John, there you are!" the man chuckles. The well dressed man narrows his eyes slightly, as he looks down upon his companion. A slight grin stretches across his broad face.

"Yes, here I am," he replies slyly. "Mind leading me to the body Ray, or do you expect me to find it myself?" The mid-sized, chubby man chuckles slightly as he moves his right hand in a directional gesture.

"Over here, my good friend. How have ya been?" Ray asks this while lifting the crime scene tape, allowing John to step under it.

"Well, you know, busting one criminal after another. Still not finding the one I want, the usual," John replies in a mundane tone. His eyes skim about the scene, seeing minimal damage. Most of the alley is blocked off, so he has the maximum chance of finding the evidence he needs. John's eyes brighten as he spots a black Mauser with a brown handle. He cocks his head to the side, in a thoughtful manner.

"That's the weapon, in case you can piece that together. Not sure what it is though, it appears to be fairly new," Ray says, attempting to sound intelligent. John walks briskly towards the weapon and squats down beside it. He examines it, first, with his keen hazel eyes. Once satisfied, he picks up the weapon, gingerly with his right hand. He carefully turns the weapon, examining every angle, searching for a clue. Seeing none, he pulls back the bolt to reveal eight bullets remaining.

"Two shots fired…" he removes his hand from the bolt, allowing a successful _click _to sound. His eyes scan about the area, finding a rail a couple of inches away. He smiles slightly, and then looks back down at the weapon, instantly his eyes catch upon three initials. He looks over the engravement, "JMC. What was the name of the accused Ray?" John turns his head, looking up at his companion. Ray shifts his eyes up towards the crystal clear sky, and then looks back down at John.

"Henry, Henry Ross."

"No other name?" John asks. Ray shakes his head in reply. John turns his gaze back towards the gun, and then places it carefully where it previously lay. John stands to his full height of six foot one, and fumbles in his inner, jacket pocket for a needed object. Moments later he removes a small, navy notebook. He scribbles information onto a page, writing down the gun model, year, ammo present, and the engraved initials on its barrel. After writing down the needed information, he replaces his notebook in his left pocket, and turns to walk slowly towards the body. A patrol officer steps towards the weapon, "I wouldn't touch that officer, it's still live." John pauses turning towards the novice officer.

"How do you unload it sir?" he asks. The question almost seems childish to John, and he can't help but smile. Without saying a word he steps towards the gun, once more, and picks it up. He examines it for a moment, and then pops the magazine plate at the bottom of the weapon. His sharp eyes glance up at the officer, and he eagerly offers his palms. John takes the magazine, and dumps seven bullets into the officer's hand. Instantly the officer grabs at the weapon, which John removes from his reach. "Patience, you might just shoot yourself Ronalds." The officer retracts, staring at John with a strange expression. John simply smirks whiles pulling back the bolt, and causing one final bullet to pop out from the top of the gun. John catches the bullet effortlessly in mid-air, and hands the bullet to the officer to bag.

"What exactly is that sir?"

"It's a C96 Mauser, better known as the Broomhandle Pistol, has been in production since 1896. It has been used and carried by many notable persons. It can also double as a rifle, having a wooden butt attached to its distinct handle. I would tell you more, but I have a job to do," John nods politely as he hands over the weapon to be bagged. "Don't forget that magazine follower," John says, while turning back to the body.

"A C96? Didn't Winston Churchill carry that weapon?" Ray asks, as John continues examining the crime scene. John lowers himself, once more, to the ground examining a broken liquor bottle.

"While he was in service, yes. Yet, I fear, those guns are dying out as we speak," John stands and steps smoothly away from the pointless little items. He deems it the appropriate time to mosey on over to the main attraction. He tips his hat to the mortician, "What do we have here Ron?" John crouches over the body, and begins his examination.

"Well we have a young girl; I figure about twenty-three, who found herself in a fowl situation. There are clear signs of a struggle, a bruise beneath her left cheek, reddened skin around her wrists, followed by a couple of, dare I say, playful cuts on her lower arms. Yet, that's not how she died. The fatal blow was a bullet wound to her skull, clean entry, and nasty exit." John looks over each wound as Ron describes them. When he looks upon the bullet wound, his face goes pale. He has seen many bodies in his career, and only one has left a fowl imprint in his mind. This body comes dangerously close to that one that will forever be in his memory. "You alright John?" The words are faint, as he stares deep into her faded green eyes. The eyes are filled with fear, desperation, and regret. He could tell that she had done something terrible, and the last thought through her mind wanted to fix the wrong. _Daddy!_ A youthful face flashes across John's mind, bright green eyes two grinning beacons. A hand falls upon John's shoulder, pulling him out of the memory. "Is something wrong John?" John looks up at Ron, and shakes his head while standing. He slides his hand down his face as he stares down at the lifeless corpse.

"I'm fine. Have the parents been informed?"

"Working on it, they live on West Street." John nods and then tips his hat in departure. He offers one last glance at the body as Ron's assistant covers the body.

"Come on John! Let's go shake up some witnesses!" John turns to look at Ron, who is already walking toward the end of the alley. John smirks absently, and follows after his partner.


End file.
